


I'll Call You When the Party's Over

by Ukthxbye



Series: I loved you at the wrong time [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, BAMF Molly Hooper, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I Love You Scene (Sherlock: The Final Problem), Injury, Language, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-14 20:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17515244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ukthxbye/pseuds/Ukthxbye
Summary: Sherlock rushes to Molly's flat after Sherrinford finding evidence of every misstep laid at his feet. Molly reached her emotional end of the rope. She and Sherlock battle mentally and verbally with the evidence his sister cruelly provided them.





	I'll Call You When the Party's Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Writingwife83](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writingwife83/gifts).



John, safe. Mycroft, safe. Parents, safe.

 

Molly, safe but…

 

Sherlock needed a car and there were police vehicles covering the lawn of his old family home. In his mad attempt, he moved too slow to evade capture.

 

“What the hell, Holmes?!” an officer yelled, snatching his arm and dragging him out the car seat.

 

Sherlock grunted and growled as he pulled from the man and sat on the ground head in hands.

 

The officer saw weariness mingling with something else in the trembling man before him, busted knuckles bleeding through the wrappings. Though he did not understand everything he endured, he realised Sherlock Holmes needed to get somewhere desperately.

 

The keys landed in the grass at Sherlock’s feet with a thud as he checked to see if anyone was looking. “Take mine, mate. The gray one. Just don’t wreck it.” With that said, he walked away back to John Watson to get more information.

 

One more deep breath and Sherlock leapt up, keys in hand. John watched the vehicle speed away with a sigh and a deep breath of his own.

 

Sherlock hesitated but a moment at her door, deciding on picking the lock, finding his key, or knocking. He ran each scenario quickly, but she beat him to the punch. The door wide open before him. She hadn’t been asleep and heard him outside.

 

He soaked in her form, all in one piece and covered by a fluffy dressing gown. A strange compulsion to embrace her and bring her close to him fell over him. But as his eye landed on her face, he rapidly accessed that he could not linger there nor was a hug in the cards. Her eyes dry but red and burning holes into his own.

 

“Sherlo--” but he cut off her as he brushed past her on to the mission ahead.

 

Frantic and desperate, he searched the edges and heights, recalling angles from the video feed. She stomped into her sitting room, glaring at him as she tried to follow his erratic movements.

 

“Bloody hell, they already found them!” she yelled, hands in fists at her side. Her voice cracked at the end. Her throat still raw from one long cry she let go after the phone call ended. His eyes revealed he sussed that out, his pause causing her own, as both breathe in heaves. She spied the tremble in his fingers and clamped her mouth shut tight as her eyes closed to him in frustration.

 

“Sherlock, if you are high--”

 

“How many?” he asked breathlessly.

 

“How many what?” she asked shaking her head.

 

“Cameras. How many did they find?” he murmured, continuing his tearing at corners and edges near her bookcase.

 

She scrunched her face up.

 

“How many?!” he turned and shouted, causing her to jump in place.

 

“Two!” she yelled in return.

 

A grunt, and hands raked through his hair as he squeezed his own eyes closed, searching for the images he required. In a second, they popped back open, and he deftly moved his hand over a cat figurine on her shelf.

 

He pulled a small camera out from the bottom between his fingers, twirling it.

 

She stood frozen and wide- eyed following his motions. She wondered how long it had been there and gulped at the realisation.

 

He looked into it not sure if it still had a feed connected. With a slight smile he dropped it the floor and slammed his heel into it. Its spark made her jump again, arms folding in frustration.

 

She drew a hard breath through her nose, “Dammit Sherlock.”

 

With that task complete, all the energy drained out his limbs. He shuffled to her sofa and collapsed.

.

“Tell me what the hell is going on!” she shouted, hands on her hips as she walked toward him.

 

“Sister... I have a sister.” It sounded so simple, he thought.

 

She frowned waiting for him to continue to connect their current state to this mess before them.

 

He contemplated ways to explain everything even he had not wrapped his mind around. He patted his pockets, put his hands in them. _Bare facts then,_ he decided.

 

“She killed my best friend when we were children and tried to burn our home down. Through my own trauma, aided by relatives including Mycroft I replaced my memories of her.”

 

His eyes turned up to see her standing in shock, jaw dropped, and he spoke again.

 

“She built an elaborate game that involved Mycroft, John and I. You were targeted as well.”

 

She murmured, “They looked for bombs and cameras but wouldn’t explain, beyond that.”

 

“There was a timer we watched. If you didn’t answer or say the words, it would trigger the explosions. She blew 221b up, so I had no reason to believe her not planning the same fate for you.”

 

She shuffled her feet, “That is awful but…”

 

“Yes, it was a lie, but I did not learn until after... her true purpose.”

 

Silence fell between them. Weariness sagged his shoulders, but hers remained tight. It still irritated her. Years of it crawling in the cracks of her mind and collecting in a pool in front of her thoughts. She broke when she hung up the phone call earlier. Admittance only made the burden excessive. She wanted something but what she hadn’t put words to yet.

 

Sticking to the facts at hand, she sniffed, “Well that explains it all I guess.”

 

Sherlock shook his head absently as he looked to the side, rubbing his hands together, ignoring their pain.  “No, I am afraid there are many more questions.”

 

“Well, I am sure you will have it all sussed--”

 

“You’re angry.” He stared at her as he stopped her words with his. She crossed her arms unyielding at her chest, glancing toward her kitchen and then down to the floor.

 

“How else did you expect me to be?” she sighed heavily.

 

He pressed the issue. “Must have known... you know... you asked me to say it first.”

 

“Because it was a game or could be or experiment or God any of your other madness and I wanted to send as good as you could... I don’t know what the truth is to be honest,” she swallowed hard and shook her head, shrugging her shoulders in frustration. “Never do with you.”

 

He drew in a sharp breath and huffed it out. “That seems unfair I have been brutally honest at times with you and in your presence.”

 

“And yet you lied easily to John and Janine” She raised her eyebrow, daring him to argue against it.

 

He challenged, “There are some not as perceptive as you and I.”

 

“Flattery is another one of your techniques. Do not attempt it on me now,” she half whispered with narrowed eyes.

 

“For a purpose for advantage yes. But outside of that, men lie for sex, for comfort and for guilt. I have the baser instincts under control, I need no comfort I cannot seek in less complicated endeavors…” he paused in thought. “I cannot say I never lied out of guilt but I am not in this case. I see no advantage to lie right now about any of this.” His eyes shot up, seeking hers. She held them for a breath but looked away and down.

 

She bit her lip shaking her head as she murmured, “Lies are more complicated than that Sherlock”

 

His forehead knitted as his eyes turned down to his hands. The wounds ached and stung with every muscle twitch. Splinters poking into nerves.

 

“Why am I even bothering?”

 

“I was wondering the same thing,” she half laughed.

 

He stood abruptly and crossed to stand closer to her. She pulled back instinctively.  

 

“So you have always been completely truthful to me?” He studied her face and saw a doubt flash across her eyes.  “Ah, there it is. The realisation you are human just the same as I am.” He stared. Her eyes still red, tired. Fire deep but not at the surface yet.

 

She smirked, “Admitting we are human now?”

 

“Don’t change the subject, don’t try to deflect with me.” Now his irritation showed its edge.

 

“I’ll do what I damn well please at this point,” she gritted, her eyes searching his face.

 

“Why was today a bad day?” he pressed further. His voice low and direct, not dropping his gaze.

 

“I think that’s obvious,” she sneered.

 

He narrowed his eyes. "No... earlier on the phone you asked if it was urgent, you weren’t having a good day, and you didn’t answer the first call—"

 

“Who’s deflecting now?” she threw back.

 

“Tell me,” he gritted through his teeth,

 

“Tell you what?” she sniffed. All leverage was hers.

 

He huffed, his face falling, as he shoved his hand back in his pockets. “It's impossible... the most impossible situation. To convince someone of the truth, when they fear everything has always been a lie. And yet…” he stopped himself, his face softening. “There is a truth to that. I have lied to you. Wishing you well and happiness with someone who was a poor substitute for what you really wanted.”

 

She raised her hand but drew it back into a fist and to her side.

 

“The goddamned audacity of you Sherlock Holmes,” she whispered through her teeth.

 

He risked a smirk. “Can you counter it? No? Then tell me why the day was bad.”

 

She bared her teeth at him, “Fuck you... you’ve already deduced it so you tell me because God you love to do that, don’t you? Consider it the first and last time with me you get to.”

 

The direction of the discussion would not benefit either of them but his irritation and her anger found their perfect juxtaposition.

 

He swallowed hard.

 

“Molly…”

 

She dropped her own voice. “Tell it to me.”

 

He gulped again, searching her face and his thoughts. His theory would open wounds. But she requested it nonetheless.

 

“Or maybe the _great_ Sherlock Holmes doesn’t perceive everything that goes through everyone’s mind,” she mocked with feigned shock.

 

“It’s Tom... he’s engaged to someone else,” he said plainly.

 

She smirked sadly, “Wow, such a bloody good guess... that is wrong.”

 

He frowned and regretted trying the thought out.  “I don’t mean to—

 

“Yes, you do. But why would it be him and I would still be upset, after all he is a _poor substitute_ and here I have-had the real thing confessing his love to me,” she stumbled out, emotions starting to crack in her voice.

 

He caught the slip but shoved it out of his mind searching for the piece he was missing.

 

She sighed, folding her arms against her chest again, “Toby is sick. That’s it.”

 

He closed his eyes in frustration at missing the cat at his feet. He assumed perhaps it was due to all the yelling but Toby never seemed to care before.

 

She continued, rambling out everything like a bottle spilled on the floor, “I mean they think he’ll be fine but they are running tests. And also a new intern damaged a sample, and I got to start a new process. And aunt Liz insists she is dropping in on Sunday and she is a bloody pill and complains about everything and it's exhausting that my day off will be spent listening to her insult everything including the tea… That’s why it’s a not good day... well, until--”

 

“Molly, I’m sorry she made you part of her--”

 

She waved her hand to stop him, “I know…” she took a deep breath, “You had no say in that. And I was not the only one in your life within her touch.”

 

“It’s not a game, though I thought in the end I won some advantage but I lost. Being here only reminds me,” he murmured, feeling tension leaving between them.

 

“I’m alive, so are you.” she shrugged.

 

“At what cost though? No, death was not the punishment or the prize. Emotions. She found them, cutting back layers and she thought--”

 

She screwed up her face, glancing at his. “That I would be delicate enough to be permanently damaged?”

 

He sighed, poking his bottom lip out in contemplation. “Perhaps... or perhaps just... me. I lost, you are saying it as well she did, though in a way that still somehow preserves both our dignities.”

 

He turned his eyes back to hers, locking into a stare. “You’ve always done such skillfully.”

 

She shook away the stare, “Stop, because these are words like you’ve said before. That I count. That I matter most and then you just leave me on a metaphorical doorstep.”

 

“Then why do you continue to stand there?” he asked earnestly.

 

She bit her lip, not sure if the complicated thoughts would come out right if she spoke them quickly. But they came to her anyway, and she let them out.

 

“I do leave that place, and you unconsciously... or consciously? Who knows, but anyway… you find a way to pull me back there.” she shrugged again looking down at her feet.

 

He imperilled himself once more.

 

“I said the words, twice. Do you understand why?”

 

Molly countered, “She told you what the rules were.”

 

“Only to convince you to say them. You changed those rules,” he admitted.

 

“So why…,” she squinted her eyes. “God, I don’t know if I even want to know. Whatever you realised I don’t even want to know at this hour when…” she bit her top lip in frustration.

 

“What does the hour matter now?” he huffed shifting closer to her.

 

She allowed it but still questioned him. “Why do you need to tell me now? Why can’t we leave it like all the other times I wonder?”

 

Her brown eyes dark and open turned up to his, and he felt the words leaving his lips, remembering hearing them that day in the hospital. Now they meant something to him as well. That she said it better than he could have ever attempted to compose.

 

“It’s not that I didn’t love you... it’s that I loved you at the wrong time,” he lamented.

 

Molly’s eyes went wide but fell to the floor as she dropped her chin, her hands rubbing her face. Sherlock listened to her quiet breathing through her nose and to the sigh before her words.

 

“You weren’t asleep.”

 

He opened his mouth, but she spoke again, this time that bitterness spitting back.

 

Her hands fell to fists balled at her side.  "I knew it. I ignored my instincts and... and..."

 

“It's your blind spot. I am... I’ve always been such,” he murmured, keeping a close watch on her face.

 

Those words ran across her mind, and she searched for the exact emotion they elicited.

 

_Its something._

 

“Why did you not just wake up? Have a real conversation?” she pressed.

 

“You were confessing... something I was intrigued by and seemed deeply personal. Too personal to interrupt,” he shrugged.

 

“But it’s ok to just listen and record like you do and do nothing with then?” she gritted.

 

Taken aback, he asked, “Who said I did nothing with those words?”

 

“We wouldn't be having this conversation after 2 am if you had.”

 

She might have been right, he thought but what did she expect? What had he missed?

 

He returned to the sofa in a huff as he flopped down.

 

“What do you wish I would address? Considering your awareness of my nature and thoughts on emotional entanglements,” he stiffened, narrowing his eyes.

 

Her lip trembled, but her voice strengthened with each word. “Ah now we get to the truth then. You don’t love me. You love that noble feeling you get putting me at just the right distance. It's a different kind of high, isn’t it? At least when I preserve your dignity it is out of concern. Yours is the same as a pat on the back for you.”

Venom soaked in her words, and no energy left in him to avoid the bite. But he discerned the source of the hurt. She did too. And she wasn’t ready to let it go.

“Molly, I wasn’t lying,” he said, letting his voice slip into a plead.

“So what?”

He stared with a dropped jaw and he snapped it shut before responding in a quiet voice. “You confound me and... you said it too.”

“Duress isn’t what I would call healthy,” she exasperated.

“You didn’t know you were--”

“Sherlock, you are the duress. You asking was traumatic. And your sister gets it. God, she is the smart one, isn't she?” she jeered.

 

He stopped, his jaw tightening, but he kept his voice low. “Let’s not discuss her.”

 

“Probably best.” she sighed.

 

“I. Was. Not. Lying” he said louder, capturing her eyes as she moved a step closer.

 

“So. What.” She narrowed her eyes as she stopped.

 

"So what," he laughed suddenly.  "I see I have labored in…” He squeezed his eyes shut pausing before he put his foot in his mouth once more.  “But you are correct, I am the duress. Weight placed on you because you were strong enough to endure it."

 

“Because I let you. My own fault. I’ve beat myself up enough now though,” she admitted.

 

“Love makes us fools.” He meant it for something more specific to come out but that is all his tongue allowed.

 

She frowned deeply. “I was no fool, I knew what I was in for every time. I knew exactly what I got myself in every moment I let you have.”

 

“I've never been fooled,” she gulped.

 

“Then I cannot understand it. Help me understand it,” he begged.  

 

He stood and moved to her in a flash. He reached his hand out to grab hers. He fathomed nothing else to do. Words batted away every time. But she did the same to his hand, and he stood lost once again.

 

“Don’t you dare try because I made my needs clear.” She raised her voice. “You do not get this to control because it is my heart and my future and past. You wanted it in pieces before and that is what you're going to get now. If you cannot agree to that, then get out of my flat.”

 

She motioned toward the door with her head, waiting for his response.

 

Everything in her ached. Everything in her told her this was needed, wanted. At least by her. To take some control back when the advantage was hers. Sure, she wanted to believe she could just embrace him, take his hands hers and all would be fall into place. But that would require ignoring something, everything they would have to deal with anyway in the end.

 

His eyes danced between her and the door. The thought of cool air outside filling his lungs slammed into the front of his thoughts. He craved it like a drag off a new cigarette. The ceiling closed in on him, and his knuckles twinged at the memory of that same cavalcade of emotions crashing over him. Overwhelming until he relieved with tearing apart the object that spoke of a finality he was unprepared for anyone except himself.

 

“That’s it then,” she struggled out, tears unexpectedly finding their way out. And it made her mad that he got them to appear again. She rubbed her face fiercely.

 

He looked at his feet. "These words are empty for now. They lack the understanding you seek, need… I..."

 

He strode quickly to the door, staring at it, placing a hand on the knob.

 

Molly’s tears stung again, and she covered her face pressing her fingers in her eyes as if it could dam the overflow that threatened if and when he opened and closed that door.

 

The dull thud of his fist slamming into the wood, followed by his desperate scream, filled the room, and Molly jumped at it dropping her hands to her side.

 

Sherlock fell to the floor holding his knuckles. Her feet carried her and her legs gave way as she landed the floor beside him before she could stop herself. Her hands went to his instinctively examining. Only when she realized what she allowed herself to do she froze.

 

He flinched and pulled his hand out of her grasp.

 

She grabbed it back roughly, and he grunted in pain.

 

She missed it before in the cloud of hurt and confusion that fogged the room.

 

She missed the dressings haphazard at best, probably something he stole from the ambulance. He left John and everyone there and rushed here.

 

“Sherlock, for God’s sake... what the hell did you do to yourself?”

 

“Released a little tension that is all.”

 

She stared at him.

 

“Destroyed a coffin as part of the game.” He wanted to tell her. He didn’t tell her earlier. He can’t decide within himself if it was a positive or a negative yet. Weighing its worth as that gold plaque sat heavy in his pocket even now.

 

"Oh, God that must hurt like hell," she whispered. 

 

“Yes, the hands hurt too.”

 

She frowned at his attempt at something they had just decided to let go she thought.

 

She unwrapped his hands, ignoring his whimper as the blood stuck the tape his skin and pulled.

 

"God there are splinters everywhere Sherlock," she exasperated wearily. 

 

She sighed as she turned his knuckles to study them in the lamp's light on the table near her door.  

 

“I will get it taken care of—“

 

“By me. Just... just stay there.”

 

He leaned against the side table as he heard shuffling in her bathroom for supplies. He eyed the door to his right, knowing he had time to slip out and away. But his legs were in sand and he could not shift them to bear his weight.

 

She returned with a small basket of supplies and sat beside him again.

 

Snapping on gloves, she grabbed a pair of tweezers. He drew into himself a bit but she snatched his hand rough again producing a whimper from him as she worked fast pulling splinters.

 

“Your bedside manner is lacking,” he smirked then grimaced as she dug out a larger piece.

 

She didn’t look up at him and only kept her eyes on his hand.  “What do you expect after 2 in the morning?”

 

“The coffin said something... something specific.”

 

She paused, looking back into his eyes, as she finished putting on ointment.

 

As he tells her the rest, she began shaking.

 

“It said ‘I Love You’ and as my brother said, the list was small of who loved me.”

 

She turned her attention back to his hand, beginning the new wrapping slowly.

 

“The coffin was meant for you. Perhaps in another game you were inside it. I don’t know, I…” his voice cracked. “I only knew I could not let it stand.”

 

“So…”

 

“John and Mycroft were there,” he murmured.

 

“Great... that’s not... awkward at all,” she half rolled her eyes and closed them. She wondered what tomorrow’s conversations would look like.

 

He watched her work on his other hand, which she lifted much more gently, delicately applying ointment before she began its wrapping.

 

“Please don’t stay angry with me.”

 

His voice soft and low like velvet so close to her ears. The hair on her neck stood up, and she knew she blushed. She could feel the heat rise in her cheeks and there was no hiding his effect.

 

He pleaded, “Do anything else but please--”

 

She shrugged, “Sherlock I am not really angry with you... well, about this anyway, can’t be…” She offered, “So... we try the friends thing again?”

 

“That appears to be off the table,” he half smiled.

 

She laughed, and it caught in her throat at the end. She laughed the same over the phone to him. He noted now how sad it sounded then and now. He tired of being the cause.

 

"We’ll always be friends, Sherlock. If I haven’t kicked you out of my life yet then — ,"

 

“Not sure if you caught the meaning of my answer,” he sighed.

 

“And I think you are missing my silent plea… not tonight... not now.”

 

She looked into those blue eyes much too long as always. So near as she held his hand.

 

“I—”

 

“Have a sister to sort out and family and a blown up 221b, correct?” She read his eyes for understanding.  “There are more pressing matters than what we said.”

 

“I cannot say you are incorrect but perhaps... imprecise,” he murmured sadly.

 

She shook her head breaking the spell of his stare. “Do not feel out of some sense of obligation that is has to be dealt with at all. We have yelled about it, well kind of, and it’s done,” she shrugged one shoulder.

 

“If obligation were the only driving factor perhaps but shockingly enough I realise that I do have feelings—” he attempted but she cut him off with another shake of her head.

 

“Which again, we can discuss but not tonight, it’s too close to it all and I don’t trust it.”

 

“Or me.” He surmised that his face had fallen, but he hoped it would provoke a better memory.

 

“Don’t pout or I’ll kick you out on the pavement. I don’t know what is real here and I need time to process it all and you do too.”

 

She couldn't look at him directly as she said it with a tiny glace out the corner of her eye. She knew he possessed a look, all soft eyes and dropped lips that would dissolve the barriers she needed tonight and for God knows how long. She fought herself long enough to shore them up, and she wasn’t letting him tear down her work. She’ll admit to herself later the hole that phone call blasted through her, but now he was too close, both physically and metaphorically.  

 

He stared at her as she finished the last wrapping as a quiet settled between them. Not out of confusion but to further his understanding. Watching every line on her face crease, contemplating how much he deepened them. He worried over them before he got in that ambulance and he noted their increase. Every word of his plan dragging her face down. Realisation washed over him like a wave; he only seen her smile once since then. He saw that sad smile she gives, and he looked to her lips now, holding back pain. The strange to him desire, an ambition to relegate those sad smiles to memory only. He missed her, though her hands held his, and her breath caressed the hairs to rise on his skin. He craved to see her grin freely and at something he said, something good or funny, even if it was at his own expense.

 

She stood up, bracing herself on his shoulder and wall. “Sleep. I think we should try that. I’ll take the other bedroom. Just laundered the sheets anyway... not sure why. Guess I had a hunch.”

 

He stood as well, “No, Molly. Let me for once be put out. You sleep in your bed.”

 

She patted his arm but pulled away quickly. “No. God, look, I am comfortable sleeping on a slab in the morgue and I’ve done it. You are more particular.”

 

He smirked, “Molly, I slept in caves at one point while I was _dead_.”

 

She smirked back, “But you didn’t like it. Look, just let’s keep this the same for tonight, ok?”

 

“Tomorrow?”

 

“We’ll see. We’ll just have to see. But I need to sleep.” She yawned wide. “Good night... morning. Whatever.”

 

There sat a hope in her use of “we’ll” that he carried with him down the hall to her bed, shrugging off his coat, feeling its lopsided weight once more. Soft and white and deep her bed called him, like it did in his mind, but empty of her and her words.

 

He whispered to himself into her pillow like a prayer as he drifted into a dreamless sleep.

 

“I love you... I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to Writingwife for the prompt
> 
> Thanks to Mouse9 for all the gif reactions in Messenger to the text. 
> 
> Title from When The Party's Over by Billie Eilish like the other stories in the series. But I also listened to "I Am Bones" by Joe Brooks because that is Sherlock in this fic.
> 
> This is the last part I believe. 3 parts, like the series always is :)


End file.
